


Tryst

by papofglencoe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papofglencoe/pseuds/papofglencoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss pays a late-night visit to Peeta prior to the Quarter Quell Reaping. </p>
<p>Canon-divergent. Mature for graphic sex and explicit language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tryst

The air is so humid and sticky I feel like I’m being smothered by invisible hands. God it’s hot, I think, wiping a bead of sweat off my brow. Sleep is out of the question- clearly. I’ve been laying in bed for hours, listening to the grandfather clock down the hall tick down the minutes and hours I have left in my life. Tick tock tick tock. I’ve really come to loathe it and its pitiless reminder of the passage of time. There are only a few precious days left until the reaping, and since I know my name is going to be drawn, there’s little point pretending that it’s anything other than my funeral. Because if he’s in there with me, come hell or high water, he’s the one making it out.

Peeta. In the hushed hours of the night I find myself thinking about Peeta. He’s been trying so hard to prepare us for whatever they might throw at us in the Quell. All the drills, the running, the push ups. He’s been relentless. And so cold and distant. I find myself missing the old Peeta, the kind Peeta. The one who wore his heart on his sleeve. Maybe I don’t have a right to admit that, even to myself. This Peeta is all business, has no interest in pretending to even be my friend. It’s so frustrating, and I don’t even know exactly what it is that’s frustrating me. I mean, I’ve made my choice. Or at least I thought that I had. I guess I want him to be him, just for a while. For what little time I have left with him. But I know I don’t really have the right to want that either.

I can’t say the training hasn’t done him good. His body has responded to all his efforts. Gone are his boyish good looks; the softness that had lingered about his face has been replaced with something else that I find slightly intimidating. His physique is still stocky, thick. But now he’s taut and sculpted. All muscle, no baby fat. He looks so strong, so healthy- and, frankly, magnificent. 

Earlier today I was pretending to do sit ups, but I was really watching Peeta out of the corner of my eye. He was lifting free weights, shirtless, and I could see muscles rippling in his arms that weren’t there before. If he could throw a hundred pound sack of flour over his shoulder as a boy, I can’t imagine what he’s capable of doing now. And I realize, then, that I want to find out.

If I’m going to die protecting him, and I most certainly will, then I want to know what Peeta’s arms around me would feel like now. I’m hungry to feel him holding me. And I’m hungry for something more. I want to kiss him, to feel him relent to me. I want to gaze at him in the moonlight and give him something to remember me by. Something that isn’t marred with sadness or pain or death.

I creep out of my bed, treading softly so as not to awaken Prim or my mother in their rooms. In the darkened hallway I find my boots and slip my hunting jacket on over my camisole to cover myself up in case I encounter a certain drunken neighbor on my way out the door. I slip out of the house and pad quietly across the street, standing in front of Peeta’s house.

I’m paralyzed with indecision. I’ve made it this far- I know that in the past few minutes I’ve made a critical choice I can’t- and won’t- back away from, but I’m not sure how to proceed now. I can’t knock and risk the noise. I look up at his open window, and that’s when the idea comes to me.

Quickly, and without hesitation, I shimmy up the drain pipe that runs along the wall adjacent to his window, using the rough surface of the wall to gain purchase. Then I slide in through his open window. I’m expecting to find him sleeping peacefully, but instead he’s sitting in bed, sketching by the moonlight. His brow is knitted in concentration as his pencil flits across the page. When he sees me enter through the window, he snaps his sketchbook shut and bolts upright, startled.

“Fuck, Katniss! What are you doing?” he asks, surprised but, I note with relief, not angry.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing, and I mean to sound nonchalant and cool, but instead I find myself croaking, “I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.”

For the first time in I don’t know how long, his gaze toward me softens, revealing something of what he used to feel for me. I feel relief washing over me, and I take his demeanor as permission to approach him. I gingerly sit on the edge of his bed, but I notice that as I do, his body tenses. Maybe this was a mistake. I clutch my jacket tightly around me, even though it’s sweltering and I’m feeling flushed. Did it get hotter, I wonder, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

So, as I sit on the edge of the bed, kicking off my boots, I look everywhere but at him. 

He sighs, running his hands through his messy blonde hair. “I can’t sleep either. But you still shouldn’t be here.”

“I know, I know.” I admit. “But if I can’t sleep, and you can’t sleep, then maybe we could just hang out, not sleeping, together?” I smile ruefully at him, and I’m surprised when he smiles back at me. “Will you allow it?” I ask.

He nods once, and I exhale loudly when he answers me. “I’ll allow it.”

I look at him then, and I’m stricken with a feeling I can’t name. There are pale blue rings underneath his eyes, and they accentuate a sadness in his eyes. He looks fatigued and worried sick. During all the training, I hadn’t noticed how emotionally taxed he has been. How alone he must feel. He’s concealed it from me so well. 

“Do you mind?” I ask, gesturing to my coat almost apologetically.

He swallows loudly, shaking his head. I remove my coat and toss it onto the chair in the corner. Then I sit next to him, our backs pressed against the headboard. He pauses for a moment, seeming to consider something. And then he puts his arm around me.

I involuntarily sigh when I feel his arm curl around my shoulder. I can feel his warmth and steadiness, and I lay my head on his shoulder, feeling his firm bicep behind my head. It’s a thousand degrees outside and his body is radiating heat, but I find myself melting into him, wanting to vanish inside of him. I’m like a moth compelled to the flame. It feels so impossibly right that I know I won’t be the first to pull away. I would burn alive inside this feeling if I could. 

I cross my left arm across my body, resting it on his abdomen. I can feel his six pack beneath his shirt, how his stomach muscles tighten at my touch. In the heat, his undershirt is clinging to his skin. He rests his head against mine, and we sit like that in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company.

“How have you been, really?” I murmur.

He chuckles sadly. “Well, you know. It’s been a ton of fun preparing us to fight in another death arena. But I can think of a few other things I would have preferred to do with my summer.”

No. I can’t bear to talk about it. I have to change the topic because just the thought of losing him, or of what I must do to protect him, is more than I can handle. I don’t want him to clam up or shut me out again, though, so I grasp at whatever straw I can to keep him talking. I need to hear his voice. 

“What have you been drawing?” I ask him, pointing to his sketchbook.

I feel him shrug. “Oh, just stuff. The usual.” He is guarded, reveals nothing with his answer.

I laugh. “How very specific of you, Peeta.” I hate to do it, but I sit up, pulling away from his protective arm.

I lean across him, grabbing his sketchbook from his nightstand. I hear his breath hitch in my ear, can feel his body tense up in the moment my body hovers over his. I don’t know if it’s my proximity or whatever he’s been drawing that causes the change.

“I- I don’t really think you’d be interested in that stuff. It’s just- it’s just random stuff I’ve been drawing.”

I look at him, at the flush creeping up his neck, and I arch an eyebrow. “Well now you’ve got my attention, Mr. Mellark.”

He meets my gaze reluctantly. He looks ashamed, embarrassed. “I- I. Okay. You can look at it. I’m sorry, though. It’s just. Drawing this helps me to sleep, okay? You know… without you. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to look at this?” I whisper, and he nods, his blue eyes searing into me.

I flip open the book and thumb slowly through the pages. And I gasp, covering my mouth to conceal the emotions his pictures have conjured in me.

He’s been sketching our story, the story of the two of us.

It starts with a little girl wearing a simple red shift dress, her hair parted in two braids. A blonde boy sits on the floor, staring dreamily up at her, and birds are perched on the sill outside the window.

There’s a girl plucking a dandelion in the schoolyard. The olive skin of her cheeks is flushed pink, her grey eyes averted from the boy.

A boy tosses burned bread to a girl who hovers, filthy and rain-soaked, in the mud beneath an old apple tree. It’s the boy who is hanging his head in shame. 

There is a handshake on stage at the Reaping, the first time we touched. The boy can’t look at the girl.

I’m wearing the dress Cinna made for me, and I’m spinning, the dress in flames. I look radiant. I’m a phoenix, engulfed in the flames and rising from the ashes. I have sable wings extending from my shoulderblades. 

We’re talking on the roof of the Training Center, and the glow of the city lights beneath me illuminate my eyes. My skin glimmers in the luminescence like an apparition. The edges of my body are blurred as if I am fading into a dreamscape. As if I weren’t even real. 

I’m standing on the platform, the clock ticking down, and looking at the bow in the Cornucopia with determination.

Then I’m leaning over him, trying to dress his leg wound, and lines of worry etch my face.

He’s kissing me in the cave. Water drips above us and our bodies are entangled. A charcoal darkness surrounds us, but we don’t seem to notice or care. We are alone, together, in our kiss. 

We’re outside the train, and I’ve told him it was for the Games. There are tears in my eyes, and the sky behind me is filled with violent, angry swirls. Jagged slashes of the pencil rend the page.

We’re on the train during the Victory Tour, and I’m asleep in his arms. His fingers are entwined with mine, and there’s a small smile on his face as he watches me. I’m not scowling, and he’s right. It’s improved my looks. 

Then I’m sleeping next to Gale’s prone body in my kitchen, my hand resting in his, streaks of dried tears staining my face. 

Running. I’m running, and beads of sweat cover my face and chest. My hair is sticky with sweat. My thin t-shirt clings to me, my legs look long and lean in my shorts. But I look strong and capable. And defiant. Perhaps even a little beautiful.

All these pictures of me- of us- and I feel like he’s missing the most essential thing. Page after page, I can see how I haunt him like the ghosts of the Games. I can’t bear to haunt him like this. 

Is that the last picture he will draw for his book? I don’t know. But I know there is another memory I’d like to give him, another piece of the story. I don’t know what his feelings are for me anymore. Not exactly. He’s shut me out so much, and there’s so much hurt that exists between us, but I desperately want to kiss him. And I don’t want to kiss him because he hurts. I want to kiss him despite the fact I’ve hurt him. I want to disappear a moment into the kiss, to forget what I’ve done to the boy with the bread. To forgive myself enough to feel worthy of kissing him.

I close the sketchbook wordlessly, placing it next to me on the bed. When I look at Peeta, his face is pale, his lips drawn together in a thin line. He looks terrified of what I might say.

The thing is, I don’t want to say anything. I don’t think I need to, and I’m no good with words anyway.

So I rise up onto my knees, and I swing my left leg over his waist so that I’m straddling him. I place my hand on his chest, where I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm. I stare into his eyes, just inches from mine. They’re pools of sadness and love and hope, and as I lean toward him slowly, I can see there’s something else there, too.

I press my lips to his, softly at first, but with increasing pressure. He meets my kisses with equal force, wrapping his hands around my waist and caressing my back. When I part his lips with my tongue, he groans into my mouth, and I can feel him swelling beneath me. His erection feels so right against me, like puzzle pieces that fit, and I can feel a wetness seeping from within me. I playfully bite his lower lip, and I’m surprised to feel him twitching through the cotton of my pajama shorts.

“Fuck, Katniss,” he groans in agony. 

I pull away from him and look at his face, at his eyes hooded with passion for me. Slowly, with relish, I lift my camisole over my head and sit there, topless, on his lap. I want him to see me, like this, in the moonlight and to remember me when I’m gone. Let this be the last picture he draws of us, this moment. 

He looks at me reverently, like I’m something beautiful and untouchable, and I take his hands, guiding them to my breasts. He leans forward and kisses them, flicking the nipples gently with his tongue. He teases each nipple with his teeth, and the unfamiliar sensation threatens to overwhelm me. Now I’m the one groaning.

My hips begin to grind instinctively against his, and the friction of his cock through our clothes makes me ache with a need I have never felt before.

I buck against him, my eyes squeezed shut in concentration, and I can’t help but blurt out, “I thought you hated me.”

He holds me still, gripping me firmly by the shoulders, and I whimper out of frustration. Whatever we’re doing, it’s made me greedy. I want more, and I can’t bear to stop.

He’s insisting I meet his gaze. “You’re a piece of work, Katniss. Don’t you know? I could never hate you. I’m just doing what I have to do. Don’t you see?” His tone, his eyes, are desperate for me to understand.

He’s so hard beneath me. I can feel how badly he wants me, how much he loves me. And I do see.

So I nod and lean forward, pressing my forehead to his. I whisper, “I know.” To show him that I understand, I peel his shirt off his body, pausing to admire his musculature and the fine blonde hairs on his chest. Almost timidly, I reach out to touch his bare skin. I have never touched him like this, and his skin feels delicious to the touch. I begin to kiss his neck, to suck gently on his skin, which tastes salty from the hot summer night, and he moans in response.

“I want to make love to you, Peeta,” I whisper, quickly and while I have the courage to confess it.

He hold my face in his hands, kissing me fervently, and I can feel his smile on my mouth.

I let my hand fall, slowly, down his chest, and I reach beneath the band of his shorts. His breath becomes labored, and I gasp as I feel him, for the first time, in my hands. The softness of his skin, the hard lines and ridges of his cock. I don’t know what to do, have never touched a boy like this, and he knows that. He whispers, “Here,” and takes his hand, placing it over mine, and begins to move my hands along his length in slow, repetitive strokes. His eyes close, head falling back in ecstasy, and I’m overcome now with hunger for him, for more of this feeling that we are giving to each other.

I stop stroking him and lean up on my knees, hovering over him. He opens his eyes, looking at me questioningly.

“Take my shorts off,” I tell him, my voice husky and thick. His mouth falls open at the bluntness of my command, and I lean down and passionately kiss him, our lips swollen and pink. I feel his hands on my waist, can feel his fingers peeling my shorts and panties down in one motion, and then he’s touching me. He holds me closer to him by grasping my hips, my thighs, my buttocks. Exploring every inch of me like his life depends on it. Holding my body so closely to his that we’re covered in each other’s sweat. Then he’s touching me, and I’ve never been touched there before, and the sensation of his fingers exploring my curves and folds makes me groan into his mouth.

I slip my shorts and panties off my right leg, then left, and push Peeta up against the headboard. He’s taken his prosthetic leg off, and I know that this will be the easiest way for us to do what I want next. I curl my fingers around his penis and guide him to my entrance, which is slick and wet, ready for him. I slide down slowly onto him, and as he enters me, he wraps his arms around my waist, pressing his face into my neck. I curl my arms around his neck, and we sit like this for a moment, just feeling the impossible closeness of the other person.

And it doesn’t hurt like I thought it would, like I overheard the girls in school saying it did. He fills me, fits inside me so perfectly, and I stretch to accommodate him. I start rising and falling along his length, and then I’m moaning his name over and over. I notice at some point that the headboard is knocking along the wall, and I move one hand to stabilize it, to hold it still. He reaches up and clasps his hand around mine, preventing me.

“Don’t,” he growls into my ear, and suddenly I’m with the Peeta who has been training me with such determination and ferocity these past weeks. “I want to remember that sound, too,” he says, and so I ride him harder, making the headboard slam, again and again into the wall.

Our kisses have grown sloppy, our hair tangled, our bodies slick with sweat, and I can feel something building inside of me. Fire is coursing through my veins, and I’m tingling and lightheaded. I’m weightless and invincible, and I can’t breathe, but now I’m so impossibly happy about it that I don’t fucking care. And then I feel something erupting inside of me, and I yelp out in pleasure. He kisses me deeply, greedily tasting the sound. My walls are pulsating, grasping his cock inside of me, and he groans at the sensation of my orgasm.

“Katniss,” he whispers, “Can I come?”

I hold his face in my hands now, and I’m planting kisses along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the freckles of his nose, the corners of his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes” I answer everywhere that my kisses fall on his face.

And then I feel him coming, releasing his warm fluid inside of me, and we’re pulsating together, my walls still squeezing him, matching every throb. His trembling arms hold me tightly against him, and I know now what his arms feel like around me, holding me tightly against his body. His strong arms are shaking from a feeling I have inspired in him- not from exhaustion, but from satisfaction and devotion.

We sit like this, in the moonlight, and I ask him, “So what should we do with our last few days?” 

And I understand exactly what he means when he answers, “I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you.”


End file.
